Page 25 of Stuck-Up Big Shot
But I’m alone, and it appears no one else spent the night with me. So it must’ve been my imagination that conjured a woman to my bedroom.
The problem, however, is that the entire night has been blacked out from my memory. To be honest, it’s more than a little disconcerting. I’ve only ever been this level of blackout drunk once before—the day we laid my baby sister to rest.
I’d gone out last night to commemorate Mel’s birthday, and to get away from the quiet somberness of my apartment. I remember sitting at the bar after maybe my second shot when, out of nowhere, a woman sat down next to me and put the moves on me.
I wasn’t there to get laid. And the more disinterested I acted, the more the woman persisted. And then I saw Sutton. The sea of people parted momentarily, and when I looked up from my drink, my eyes landed on her. She looked devastatingly beautiful and sexy-as-fuck in a sparkly blue dress that showed off every curve of her body.
I’d planned on going to talk to her. Ask her to dance. Anything, but after another round of whiskey the woman ordered, Sutton disappeared, no longer in my line of sight. So, I’d said, “fuck it” and went home with the woman. Did I even get her name? Hell, if I can remember.
Everything else is a hazy clump like a dream that you wake from, catching only fleeting glimpses and images in your head, unable to process everything to make a complete picture.
But somewhere in my foggy brain, I remember seeing Sutton. And it wasn’t just at the bar. Was she here?
With a foggy brain, a spasming stomach, and a head full of regret, I finally make my way to the bathroom, relieving myself and jumping in the shower for what I hope will clear away the stench of the whiskey remnants clinging to my skin.
After an hour, or maybe more, seeing as how slow I’m slogging through basic tasks, I’m finally showered and dressed, with coffee brewing in the kitchen as I munch on a piece of dry toast. I open the cupboard to extract a coffee cup, and out of the corner of my eye, I notice a note near a pile of stacked mail on my table.
Curious what it is, because I certainly hadn’t put it there, I place the cup down and pick up the folded piece of paper. My name is scrawled in a swirly, frilly script on the outer flap.
Unfolding it, I read it, then reread it, having to grab the back of the kitchen chair to keep myself from falling over.
Dear Miles,
I hope you are feeling better this morning. You were zonked out when I left you in bed. I want you to know how much last night meant to me. And I hope you’re not mad about what I told you and that I didn’t tell you sooner.
Anyway, thanks for understanding. You know where to find me.
Fondly,
Sutton
Expecting to be foggy-headed and unable to concentrate after a night of heavy boozing is a no brainer. But even after reading Sutton’s note several times, I’m still lost as to what she is talking about.
First, what did we do together that meant so much to her? Shit, did we fuck? And if we did, how do I not remember that? And what was it she told me that I would’ve been mad about?
Speed walking as fast as I can back to my bedroom, I search for any signs that we may have had sex. I search on the floor, under the bed, and in my bathroom trash bin and find no evidence of a condom. This isn’t a foolproof way of confirming that sex didn’t happen, but I’ve always been a stickler for wrapping the goods.
You were drunk out of your mind.
I flip the bird to my conscience and slide down to my butt, my back against the bedframe, holding the note in front of me as if it’ll suddenly explain everything, even though it’s the fourth time I’ve read it.
According to my quick assessment, I don’t think I had sex with Sutton. That thought brings both relief and a strange sense of letdown, hitting my stomach like a lead balloon.
Regardless, the note also refers to her telling me something. Something that might have upset me. What did she tell me that she hadn’t before?
Confusion adds to the constant throb in my hangover addled head, and there are too many thoughts spinning in my brain. I need to find Sutton and figure out what the hell is going on. Because try as I might, I don’t remember anything that may have transpired between us last night after I returned home.
And while I may remember none of it, it’s clear something happened. And if I want to find out, I will have to extract it from the only other person who might know.
With my mind made up, I finish my coffee, check a few emails, and head over to the apartment next door.
To the woman who seems to be taking up residence in my daily thoughts and interactions. Who has grabbed hold of something buried deep inside me and shaken it loose, so I’m now unraveling piece-by-piece.
And it feels like Sutton’s the only one who can stitch me back together.
14
Sutton
